


One-Time Memory

by just_another_classic



Series: Roses in December [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 02:12:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10710024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_another_classic/pseuds/just_another_classic
Summary: “A one-time thing,” she tells him in the aftermath of their kiss. But it never is. (Neverland smut)





	One-Time Memory

“A one-time thing,” she tells him in the aftermath of their kiss.

She kisses him because he saved her father, because she feels good, because she has wanted to for quite some time – not that she wants to admit that part. But Henry is in danger, they are trapped on a dangerous island, and he is a pirate, and a hundred other reasons keep her from kissing him again. 

She tells him that their kiss was a one-time thing for herself just as much as him, not that she wants to admit that part either.

-/-

"A one-time thing," she had once told Hook, but now she is hauling him by the lapels of his overlarge, ridiculous, jacket and pressing his mouth to hers.

She tells herself she is doing this because he almost died, because he is risking his life to save Henry. But Neal also almost died, is also risking himself to save Henry, but he is not the one who Emma is kissing. She tries not to dwell on that. Instead, she focuses her energies on the way Hook's lips move against hers and the warmth of his hand against the small of her back.

This kiss is similar to the first one, the one that was meant to be a one-time thing, all passion and heat, both gasping for air before diving in for more. This kiss, however, goes on longer than the first one, their mouths opening and tongues dueling. Emma knows they should stop, should rejoin the camp and her family. She shouldn't continue kissing him, should not press her body against him like she is doing now. 

But it is Hook who pulls away, saying her name in a way that is part whisper, part prayer. “Emma.”

It is he who puts distance between them, a scant amount, but distance all the same. In the dim light, Emma can see his pupils blown wide as he studies her face looking for answers for why she is kissing him now, why here, why again. 

She’s not sure how to answer him, because that would require a level of introspection to which she is unwilling and unable to commit. Because You almost died. Because you are good at kissing. Because I need something to do other than worry about Henry. None of her answers feel entirely correct or honest, and even if they did, they won’t roll off her tongue. She doesn’t have the same way with words as him, isn’t some fairy-tale character who could drop a sonnet on a moment’s notice. She is a woman, plain and simple, who has a man standing in front of her, gorgeous and wanting. So she does what any woman in her position would do – she pulls him in for another kiss. 

Hook moves with uncertainty at first, his lips cautious, then suddenly not at all. It’s almost as he recognizes not to waste this chance, not to press further, and Emma appreciates the realization, unwilling and not wanting to speak. He breaks the kiss, and for a moment Emma worries that she had been wrong in her assessment, before moving to plant open-mouthed kisses along the column on her throat. His bread roughly scrapes against her skin and heat pools low in her belly with each at the sensation. He feels the same, he has to, his body hard and unyielding against hers.

He moves back to her mouth, moaning against her, his hand tucking under the hem of her shirt to skate across her skin. Emma silently curses his many layers hindering her ability to do the same. She wonders, not for the first time, how it would feel to feel the press of his bare skin against her own, chest against chest, hip against hip. 

It’s a dirty thought, a dangerous one, especially when he pushes her back, moving her so that her back is pressed against the nearest tree. On instinct, she practically jumps against him. But he catches her drift and hooks his arms under her legs, lifting her up and further against him. Her back scrapes against the bark of the wood, and Emma knows that later it will her, but she doesn’t care. Not now. Not after Hook nearly died, after the hell she’s been through, after everything. This is the perfect distraction from it all, her pain and insecurity and fear. 

Emma gasps against his mouth as he begins to rut against her. He’s hard and thick, and she can feel it all despite the many layers between them. Hook makes noises as he moves, tiny little gasps and moans that aren’t too loud but just enough – enough that she snakes her hand between them, popping the button of her jeans and then pawing at the front of his distracting leather pants. 

Hook pauses, suddenly unsure. She can sense he hesitance, feel it in the way he tenses against her. She doesn’t want him to stop, can’t have him stop. Not now, not after everything.

“Please,” she whispers, half-begging, wanting him to move, to continue, to allow her to disappear into the distraction of pleasure and sex. 

Hook drops his head against her, and his breath puffs against her skin. She wonders what he is thinking, but is too afraid to ask. Instead, she moves against him, willing him to move, to do something, to decide.

“Killian,” she gasps, hating herself a tiny bit for using his name, for the way his breath hitches, and how his body tenses in a different way than before.

He looks up at her then, his face full of agonized hope, and he kisses her. He kissed her deeply and fully, and far more passionately than just a man who almost died, than a man who is feeling good. He kisses her, and then he sits her down, and for a moment Emma believes it all is over, that the spell is broken. 

But then he starts tugging at the laces of his pants, and she follows suit, pulling down her zipper and extracting herself from her jeans. She feels silly standing in the middle of the jungle pantless, but she is unwilling to completely disrobe. Emma can’t be so exposed right now, not here, not with him.

He seems to understand too, because he doesn’t do away with his pants entirely, or even his vest and shirt, or jacket. Instead, he hauls her against him, kissing her with that same passion, and lifting her back to their earlier position. His hook digs into the tree somewhere above her head, and when he enters her, they both gasp in delight.  
He feels good moving against her, and for a moment Emma forgets. She forgets that he almost died, how Pan is a monster, that Neal is here and alive. She forgets everything except the man that is inside her, who is kissing her like she is the air he needs to breathe. Emma dimly wonders how this would feel in a bed, his body completely covering hers, their fingers entwined. But she pushes that thought away, focusing instead on the sparks pleasure from where they are joined and the way Hook’s lips move against her skin. 

They move together, gasping and sighing as the pressure building more and more, until –

When she comes, it is hard and fast, pleasure blooming outward until it is all-encompassing, light dancing behind her eyes and something that feels like magic sparking at her fingertips. It doesn’t take him long to follow, a few more thrusts and strangled moans until he is spilling inside of her. 

In the aftermath of it all, they stay leaned against one another, foreheads touching and panting into each other’s space. But then he lets her go, her feet falling to the ground, and the spell is broken. 

They dress silently. A gentleman, Hook offers her a handkerchief pulled from his coat’s pocket to clean up. She replies with a soft “thanks”, barely audible above the rustle of clothing. When they are finally clothed, they stare at one another, not saying anything, unsure of what words to use, which ones might be enough.

It is Hook who speaks first, his voice humorous despite the underlying dejection Emma can detect. “A one-time thing, right, Swan?”

She could say no. But that would mean admitting that she wants to say no, that this was more than her being relieved that his shadow wasn’t stolen, that he didn’t almost die. So instead she nods, “Yeah,” and he returns the gesture, looking impossibly sad. She wants to reach out to him, thinks better of it, and sets off to camp.

It’s better this way.

-/-

“A one-time thing,” she thinks hysterically, Hook staring back at her and her family huddled around the town line.

That’s what she told him the first time in the forest, after she saved her father. But it hadn’t been a one-time thing, there had been more. She had been wrong. She hopes she had been wrong after the second time, that he had been wrong, because she needs the promise of being wrong.

If there’s a promise of there being a second time – if she had been wrong – then maybe it means Regina is wrong, that she doesn’t have to take Henry across the town line, abandon their family in the wake of the curse’s undoing. 

If there’s a chance that she had been wrong in Neverland, it means that she won’t have to forget, not forever, that she might be able to come back and have breakfast with her parents, argue with Regina, and be wrong about things with Hook.

If they weren’t a one-time thing, if there’s a chance for more, then maybe it means this isn’t the end of it all, of Storybrooke, of the tiny sliver of happiness she’s found with family and friends. 

But the curse is breaking, and she has to leave. Hook tells her that there isn’t a day that will go by that he won’t think of her. She responds, “Good.” Her parents cry, and Regina barely holds herself together, giving the promise of happy memories, a chance of a happy ending, one that doesn’t include any of them. (How?)

As she drives over the town line, Emma hopes somehow there will be a way to fix all of this, to remember, that she can somehow hold onto them in her heart and mind, and that it won’t disappear into a memory.

Somehow…


End file.
